All Good Things
by boxfish
Summary: After Bilbo is exiled from The Lonely Mountains, Azog hunts him down. Takes place at The Battle of the Five Armies. All good things must come to an end.


**All Good Things**

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**I don't own The Hobbit! I mean no harm**

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Get him! Get th' Hafling!"

Bilbo flinched as a stray arrow hummed past one of his ears and embedded itself into a nearby tree trunk with a dull _thunk_.

He scrambled through the foliage at full speed, his hairy toed feet scurrying for their lives.

Not far behind him, his pursuers crashed through trees and grass and other green things, silence be damned. They were Orcs hitched on Wargs, and they were gaining quickly, even with Bilbo's well suited Hobbit- feet. Even worse, Bilbo was getting tired. He had been sprinting through the woods for quite some time, and now his once eloquent golden curls were plastered flat across his forehead. Sweat seemed to procure in insatiable amounts, and an undeniable pain in his side continuously announced its presence.

He was running on borrowed time. Every tree, rock, and bush that participated in hindering the Orcs' movements granted him just one more moment of peace, but it was not enough. It was not enough, and his life was going to end just outside of the walls concealing the Lonely Mountain.

When he had relinquished the Arkenstone to Bard, he had done so with great regret and trepidation. Nothing gnawed at him more than betraying Thorin, King Under the Mountain, but it was inevitable. The dwarves he had come to trust and see as his own family had been long gone, replaced by something so unrecognizable and warped that he could not bear to be in their company any longer, idly standing by when he knew of their crash course. Something had to be done.

The Gold Sickness.

He hated it. Hated how it had taken his friends from him, his friends that he had worked so hard for. In its hold, they could not be reasoned with. Bilbo had resorted to pleading, screaming and throwing tantrums, and disappearing for days on end. Heck, he had even broken down and bawled like baby. The dwarves remained largely unaffected, only concerned with the absurd quantity of gold in their chambers, and the Arkenstone. Finally, with guilt in his heart and dread in his throat, he turned to bargaining. If the Arkenstone was the only thing that could convince Thorin and Co. to comply, then so be it. Bilbo would do anything to save his newfound family from an untimely fate.

Thorin had been the worst out of all of them. The way his muscular arms had constricted around Bilbo's air pipe to the point of suffocation, so different from a lover's embrace had been a wakeup call for him. This was not Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thror, King Under the Mountain. This was not Thorin- who- held- him- close- at- night- and- periodically- helped- Bilbo- open- jam- jars- Okenshield. This was Thorin under the influence of Gold Sickness, and Bilbo was afraid of him. He was not like the Thorin he knew. This Thorin was neither gentle nor kind. He had no time for opening jam jars or cuddling with a _halfing_ at night, or even taste testing apple pies. The only thing that registered in his mind was that _goddamned stone_.

When Thorin had dangled him over the walls of his kingdom, legs cycling in midair, his eyes had sought out that of Thorin's. To his dismay, he had found nothing resembling awareness, much less recognition. His eyes had been as dark as the abyss that his life hung over- so dark that he could see his own terrified reflection in them.

_Take him, if you wish him to live; and no _friendship_ of mine goes with him!_

Friendship. He had thought what they had had between them had been so much more.

When Bilbo was exiled from Erebor, the Misty Mountain, and all that it entailed, twelve other dwarves had stood by, silent and stoic. None of them had met his eye when he looked to them for support. Out of the lot of them, Kili and Fili's silence had struck him the most. He recalled the numerous times the brothers had glared down anyone, including their uncle, who "threatened Mr. Boggins' delicate virtue", and almost cried when the pair of them had ignored him in favor of studying the sparkling sapphire gems they held lovingly in their hands.

_"Fili, Kili, how did the Master of Laketown find himself in the middle of a lake at two in the morning?" Balin had asked, patience gracing his features._

_"He threatened Mr. Boggins' delicate virtue!" they cried in unison._

_"Why is the manager_ _of the inn crying?"_

_"He threatened Mr. Boggins' delicate virtue!"_

_"Why is Thorin sulking in the corner?"_

_"He threatened Mr. Boggins' delicate virtue!"_

Even Dwalin, the massive and surely dwarf who could always be counted on to come to Bilbo's defense, had steadfastly ignored any form of communication from the Hobbit once they found the gold.

No more small talk (Dwalin really needed to brush up on his, all he ever did was grunt here and there), no more attempts on weapon training, no more shared winks over Thorin's queer behaviour regarding the hobbit.

Bilbo gasped as one of his feet wedged under something- some{one}- and sent him sprawling to the ground. Through his haze of panic, he detected a warm body... Long brown locks... No beard... Kili?

It was!

"Kili!" Bilbo hissed, pinching the boy's cheeks. "Kili, wake up!" But he only moaned and turned his head to the side.

Bilbo could hear the footsteps nearing.

"Please!" he cried, renewing his efforts. "Please!"

Oh, god. The dwarf was still unconscious and- where was Fili? Where one brother was, the other was never far behind. Or Thorin? Pain seized his heart, and Bilbo blinked. No. Must not think of Thorin, not now!

What would happen if the Orcs came across Kili's body? Would they recognize him as the rightful Prince of Erebor and slay him to down the line of Durin? They would, no doubt.

His palms began to sweat. What would he do? Lead the Orcs away? By the looks of it, Kili had only received a hard hit to the head- no flesh wounds or blood anywhere at all. If he wasn't seriously injured, then- the ring!

Bilbo scrabbled for the golden circle and shoved it onto Kili's pinkie, where it barely fit. Instantly, his body disappeared, and he carefully arranged it so that it was not lying on the path. Quickly, the Hobbit scanned his surroundings in case he needed to return. Then, as a _I'll be back soon_, he placed a chaste kiss to where he though Kili's forehead was, and took off at a run.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

He was forced to come to a stop when he reached the outskirts of the mountain wall. Frantically, Bilbo scanned the outer edge for a crack, a crevice, something he could slip into. Dwarves, however, were nothing if not meticulous in their construction; therefore Bilbo's search was in vain. There was not even a foothold he could use to hoist himself up. The exterior was as smooth as a newborn Hobbit's skin.

There was a sudden clamour of noise behind him, and Bilbo turned. The Orcs had him surrounded, sneers on their faces. Bilbo backed away until he could feel the expanse of the stone wall against his spine, and drew Sting. The wall, at least, could be counted on to watch over his back.

The Orcs created a cacophony, puzzling over what to do with the Hobbit now that they'd actually captured him. Shall we cook him over fire? Or turn him into stew? Rabbit stew? He _does_ look like a rabbit, after all.

As much as he did resemble a rabbit, Bilbo was not feeling up to stew today. He was in the midst of planning an elaborate and daring escape when a figure, paler than Bilbo himself, bereft of his right hand and in possession of a hook, curved and sharpened at the tip, parted the crowd like a curtain.

The Hobbit shuddered, and looked up into the eyes of Azog, the Defiler.

"Where," he leered, "is your king now?"

Bilbo saw red. Growling like a dog, he launched himself at the pale Orc, who only laughed and deflected the attack, to the jovial cheers of his brethren.

The sword Azog wielded was made of sturdy metal, much longer than Sting, and wider too. While Bilbo's own weapon simply ran straight, Azog's twisted and turned, laced with jagged edges and tricky catches. It glinted in the sun as it was brought down to meet Sting.

"Taking into account your height," Thorin's had said, circling Bilbo like a snacking vulture during his weapon lessons, "you will need to reposition yourself to defend from any downward attacks." He smirked and used the edge of his steel- toed boot to nudge the Hobbit's feet apart. "Stand like so. No- loosen up- there. Lift your arms. Higher. With _two_ hands. Yes. Good."

Bilbo mimicked the position just in time as the Orc's blade came crashing down. His knees trembled, and his arms shook tremulously against the strength of one much, much bigger than him, but somehow, he held his ground.

Thorin had taught his lessons well, Bilbo reflected wryly. The King, well aware of his stature, had deliberately shown the Gentle Hobbit moves that did not require much physical exertion, and for that Bilbo was immensely grateful. However, most of the offensive moves he had been taught were nothing more than the mild jab or thrust. The dwarf had always assumed one or another of the thirteen odd dwarves would be around to defend the burglar- and that held some truth.

Disregarding the incident in Mirkwood, one or two of the dwarves had always cheerfully volunteered their time to accompany their Hobbit to wherever he wished to go- whether it be the market to shop, the forest to gather berries, or the latrine to relieve himself. Bilbo himself had long ago resignedly accepted his fate, and being the polite person he was, did his best to ensure the dwarf babysitting him never slipped into the deep depths of boredom.

Fili and Kili, especially, found his knock- knock jokes hilarious.

Azog, finding his initial attack successfully blocked, lashed out with his hooked hand. Bilbo was, in turn, caught by surprise and only just managed to retreat. Instead of having the curved alloy rip into his flesh and end his life prematurely, it nicked the smooth silk shirt he was gifted in Erebor.

Panting, he stepped back, and realized just how tired he was. Bilbo hadn't slept or eaten properly since his discovery of the Arkenstone, and here his body happily reminded him of that fact.

Without preamble, Azog feinted and struck again, and this time his blade was knocked clumsily to the side, though it still remained in his grip. The Pale Orc took this opportunity to strike once more, and Sting was wrenched out of his small hands and sent skittering along Middle Earth's surface, out of his reach.

Much to his horror, Bilbo's eyes began to flood. Now, without a weapon to guard his front and friends to guard his back, he would surely die now? Oh, the wall contributed to his plight some, but it also prevented him from escaping.

_"I cannot guarantee his safety."_

"_Look_! The 'alfing is _crying_!

Laughter all around.

He couldn't die _now_! Not when Kili was counting on him to return, when he still had to have tea with Balin, when he still had to apologize to Thorin!

A tear slipped out.

He still had so much to do! He and Bombur were to share recipes! Nori had wanted to teach Bilbo to pickpocket! Thorin promised to help him start a garden in Erebor, he promised to learn to knit with Bilbo, and- oh! Fili and Kili agreed to help him plan a surprise party... His 196th birthday had been coming up...

But then again, Bilbo was a traitor to all dwarves, forever exiled from the home he had fought so hard to reclaim. He would not be celebrating any birthday parties or teaching anyone how to knit in the near future.

Belatedly, he realized he had sunk to his knees, and he fisted the soil beneath him. How? How had a band of Orcs gotten the better of him when he'd endured so much more? Spiders, elves, the Gollum, goblins... Heck, Thorin's temper was more frightening. Everything whirled around in his head to an increasingly aggressive tempo. How had everything gone wrong, so quickly? Gandalf had been so sure Bilbo was the hero, had insisted his presence was vital on this journey. Were all heroes destined to die a tragic death?

"Aw, look at 'im. Put him outta his misery already, won't ya?" a particularly loud voice jeered from the crowd, and Bilbo knew his time was ending.

He gathered as much of the dust beneath him as he could, flung it into the eyes of his enemies, and kicked to his feet, billowing up as much grainy sand as he could. There were shouts left and right, mostly of surprise and disdain. As soon as the Orcs were sufficiently distracted, he made a mad dash for the nearest break in the circle of bodies he was enclosed in. If he was fast enough, small enough, maybe he could disappear- run, far away, back to his Hobbit hole where he could read by the fire and have apple turnovers on Sundays, and maybe forget about this whole ordeal, this stupid adventure he should never have agreed to go on. He was sick of all of this. He wanted to go home.

An arrow pierced his right shoulder, and another, on the same appendage, and before Bilbo could react from the sudden pain, he found himself shoved flat up against the wall, feet in the air, with the point of a sword glinting down his pulsing throat. By then the dust had cleared, but Bilbo's eyes were still blurred by tears.

"I think," Azog murmured softly, so softly that the Hobbit had to strain his ears to hear, "that I shall do away with you now."

And Bilbo sobbed. He cried for the life he would not have, whether it be in the merry halls of the Lonely Mountain, or in his quiet, but familiar, Hobbit hole.

He didn't want to die yet. He really didn't.

Azog drew the blade away from his exposed neck, and reset it in the correct position for slitting one's jugular.

God, he was so scared. He closed his eyes and breathed shallowly in controlled, little puffs. Bilbo flicked through each of his treasured memories at impossible speeds. Thorin's hearty, full laugh. Then top of Dwalin's head. His mother's smile. Fili and Kili's campfire songs. Thorin's eyes, with a youthful twinkle. Thorin's back, marred with scars, Thorin's scent, brushing Thorin's long, long hair- He wanted to relive those moments again, to go through them all _one last time._

_I'm sorry, _he found himself thinking. _I'm sorry for all those times we fought, because it was over small, trivial things. I'm sorry I couldn't protect myself. I'm sorry I stole the Arkenstone._ And, surprisingly, _I would do it all again if it meant you lived. If I made you happy._

Because they had been happy, in the year they spent together. How naïve had he been, thinking it would last forever?

Dimly, Bilbo is aware of the cold, metal kiss that slips across the width of his throat and then nothing else. He's grateful, so grateful that it didn't even hurt.

They leave him slumped against the empty stone wall with two arrows to his shoulder, blood at his mouth, and Sting lying several meters away. They leave him, safe in the knowledge that his wounds are fatal, and he will fade away within minutes. They leave him, but his memories linger. _Stay,_ he pleads them, and they do.

Somewhere, in the battered remains of his mind, Bilbo wonders if Thorin would have ever forgiven him. If they could have built a new life together.

Deep down, he knows he will not live to see the day.

And with that, the defeated hero lapsed into a long, much needed slumber.


End file.
